The tiny green numbers on the microwave clock illuminate nothing but themselves in the dark, present nothing but their own digital bodies as a target, to be lost or killed as anyone sees fit at 8:03 p.m. They reveal nothing else, until footsteps clap against the floor, blind and confident in a familiar kitchen. Clap – clap – clap – flick. Warm light breathes awake, reflecting off the black counter of the island and the gleaming surface of the stove, the little green numbers now lost in a crowd of cabinets, hanging towels and recipe books stacked in the corner beneath them.
There’s some shuffling, the quiet swish of a cabinet door moving in the air, its wood cheap and thin and now patched over with a few strips of duct tape, gleaming silver in the light. A crinkle of cellophane, ripped and discarded on the island, covers the sound of hitched breathing, the unsteady rhythm like a music box missing one of its teeth. The microwave opens, a bent bag of popcorn goes in, and the tiny green numbers of 8:04 p.m. die in an instant, flicking into 1:00.
:59
:58
Hands move, the fingers of the right one stiff and clumsy, wrapped in gauze meant for ankles and stained brown at the knuckles. They sweep up the cellophane, tipping it into the trash can on top of a shattered platter, blue china flowers winking up from the crusted remains of burnt chicken.
:46
:45
Small pops, with all the dreamed violence of a child’s popgun, ricochet against the ceiling, the sink—The recipe books are pushed flush against the wall, plastic spines shoulder to shoulder with worn paper ones, most shining as though they’ve never been cracked. The one that has is stamped with plain script, written in a hand that made no attempt at calligraphy: Viola’s Cookbook. A feathered bookmark sticks out from between the pages, a tiny red flag with a green, construction-paper tree stapled on top.
:37
:36
There’s a clink, the scrape of ceramic on metal, the hands places a small cereal bowl on the island next to a single pouch of M&Ms. A vibration hums under the wheezing of the microwave, fully overshadowed as the popping increases, rat-a-tatting throughout the room. The scent of movie-theater popcorn, the salt so sharp it shaves across the tongue, wafts over the ceiling. The vibration continues, trembling next to the bowl on the island, the face on the cellphone’s screen smiling and pixelated and from over 10 years ago.
:22
:21
The vibrating stops. The screen winks with a missed call, a message the bandaged hand will not hear shelving itself in the phone’s library. Hey, kiddo. I won’t keep you long, I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do, but I wanted you to know that we—and by that, I mean I— really appreciated seeing you yesterday. I hope you didn’t sweat the dinner. I really hope so. It don’t matter how it went or how she woulda’ done it different, what matters is that we were together. At least, that’s all that matters to me. Call me if you need anything. I love you.
Merry Christmas.
:11
:10
The bandaged hand sweeps a rag across the island, cleaning up crumbs that are already underfoot. It pauses next to the phone an instant before the screen drops to black. The hand stays, and stays, and stays – the cloth damp and cool against the unbandaged fingers, still stained with a sauce that may yet remain until the next year.
:02
:01
:00
The rag is flung into the sink, slapping against the metal like a hand across a cheek, its body slithering into the basin in a crumpled heap of black flecks and soap suds. The microwave’s timer goes off a chime above soothing and a decibel below unbearable. The door opens, the popcorn bag comes out, still steaming and crackling like the small rockets that will be thrown against the pavement in a matter of days. It’s underdone, at least half the bag a rain of kernels in the bowl. As the hand tips the M&Ms into the bowl, the white, puffed flowers are now studded with colorful candy that must’ve melted in a clutched hand at some point, their colors already warped and slipping.
Flick – clap – clap – clap.
The green digits on the microwave are restored in the shadowed kitchen, their broken sections placed close enough together that from a distance, they can pretend to be whole.
8:06 p.m.
